Ignore the grim parade
as the rough edged patibulum
is dragged through ripping, virulent forests
onto shores of gore.
Scabby mobs crowding every corner of sight
while dizzy beats rain upon gaping skin;
look down thy nose at weeping, ransacked feet
you prince, thief, handsome man,
swivel from the gator eyes
and prepare to look down in earnest.
Sag on thy suppedaneum like a tooth petal'd flower,
let air escape from battered lungs never to return;
a pierced sack doll straining on the spear
while the olive limbed timber wolves look on,
listening for that last knock on wood.
Praise the soul! For the mangled sound of posed cadavers!
Rejoice! In slow destruction and intestinal choking!
In razor lights the monstrous sinners are dissolved
until only the cross remains with open arms,
three headed in its lust for terror...
@ Steven Francis poems 2011
Slip the noose of dying and madness for a time and share some observations with Welsh poet Steven Francis in this, his 5th collection of poetry.
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